The PoetAuthor(s): Charles CarrollSource: The Aldine, Vol. 4, No. 3 (Mar., 1871), p. 49Published by:Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20636004 .

Accessed: 14/05/2014 13:08

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp

.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org.

.

http://www.jstor.org

This content downloaded from 193.105.154.99 on Wed, 14 May 2014 13:08:02 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

THE ALDI NE. 4<f

THE POET.

From the German.

Away with hesitation ! The world is fair and good !

What means this lamentation In ever dismal mood?

What mean these tears undrying? This pain so sweetly keen?

This yearning and this sighing? These griefs of sick sixteen ?

Our ears are stunned with tidings Of quarrel, hate and rage,

With weary bitter chidings At this our wretched age.

Dead is the light of story Which once in legends gleamed,

And, sad, we mourn the glory Of dreams our childhood dreamed.

And looks the time so coldly? The world so sunk in night?

What then ? Why bear thee boldly, And battle for the right.

No time for chanting sadly Dull litanies of pain ;

But time to combat gladly? To be a man with men!

If anxious doubt and longing Oppress thy girlish heart,

Then up ! and 'mid the thronging Of life take living part.

Then prove, with actions fitting, Thy heart's impulsion strong.

Who acts not, voiceless sitting, 1 Shall sing no poet-song.

Still shine God's stars in splendor Far over land and sea;

Still faithful hearts and tender Are beating strong and free.

The world shall not undo them ! To deeds, both brave and great,

Thy song shall nobly woo them. Lo! there thy poet-fate!

"

?Charles Carroll.

PEN SKETCHES FROM A BERLIN SKETCH BOOK.

i.?mother kranzlern.

Flickering lamplight, storm, rain, snow?every

thing drifting in wild confusion in slanting, 'waver

ing lines; pedestrians bending forward in combat with the gale, holding on to their hats, and both ered by the folds of their cloaks and havelocks get ting between their legs; umbrellas creaking and

bulging out in strange, melon-like shapes; the very

cab-horses with fluttering manes and tails dragging the rocking vehicles behind them?the whole mir? rored on sidewalks and quays in glistening black

edged puddles. No cool refreshment for the eddy ing stream of people pouring, excited, out of the

theater, where innocence, as usual, has come off

victorious after long and hard struggle. The falling curtain has shut in the sweet mystery of the stage. Inside there the piece is over, but only to begin afresh out here in storm* and rain. There stands

poor Innocence, hesitating, while Intrigue and

painted Vice get into their satin-cushioned car

riage. She tries to pass, just as the horses start,

and the rattling wheels with their gutta-percha rims ^ bespatter her with mire, as if in scorn. A few tears,

perhaps, well to the poor thing's eyes, which only five minutes ago smiled so gladly; but she brushes them indignantly away, for her heart is still throb

bing with the eddying tide of its former ecstasy. A moment more she stands deliberating, then starts up

blushing, and drifts before the rain and the gale? rather than'walks?homeward, where in her little

garret-room she conjures up once more her blissful

visions, and with so firm intent that they glide gently over with her into the land of dreams.

Such was the picture which passed before my men

tal vision as I, one night, stepped out of the Fried rich Wilhelm's Theater; and I was still dreamily fol

lowing out, the train of thought engendered, when a

young man, with long, light hair, stepped up to me, and bowing modestly, said :

"[Are you going to the brewery, doctor? Would you allow me to accompany you ? I should like to

beg your advice in a matter of importance ! "

It was a young musician, whom I hardly knew ex

cept by sight, and was therefore a little surprised at his address. But his strangely nervous and excited

manner had often attracted my attention, and the

few words we had once or twice exchanged (he knew

me, in some way or other), had showed me that he

was one of the thousands of young men who are

painfully living along in every great city, dreaming of honors, riches and position to come. Poor fel

lows ! So I assented; and a few minutes saw us sit

ting in the great hall at the brewery, at a little table in the corner, where, spite of the distracting racket

of rattling beer-mugs, and the confused roar of thous

ands of voices, he, hastily and with trembling lips, laid his request before me. It was as I

h|id guessed? his patience was at an end?he was burning for no

toriety. The theater?he was a composer?enticed him with its treacherous smiles?and he was dream

ing of an opera which should run uncounted nights. "A text," said he drumming with his long lean fin

gers on the table, "A good serviceable text, from

an author of repute, and I am a made man ! "

I knew by experience how useless is the warning voice of dissuasion in such cases, and promised to

keep him in mind if I heard of anything. Then I let him go on building his air-castles, and sat gazing

wearily at the turmoil and confusion of the great

saloon, as he talked on without stopping, about him

self?and still himself?and his towering plans, like

all young and ambitious people. Storm and rain

seemed to keep up the game unweariedly outside; for the new comers shook themselves, and stared around

with dazed eyes as they wiped the glasses of their

spectacles or whisked the water from their hats on

the floor. Among them was an old woman, who lin

gered awhile in the corner by the door, to lay off her wet shawl, and then stooped to take the covering from her big basket. It was one of the countless

wandering cake-women, popularly called by the spe cific name of

" Mother Kranzlern," which all, with

out objection, recognize and heed. I had known her

for years, and often seen her, even in worse weather,

come into just such establishments. Why should the

thought come into my head just then, for the first

time, that it was cruel business to send out an old

lady, clearly an invalid, into such weather? Pain

fully carrying her great basket before her, she made the rounds, and found plenty of custom. I had

always been one of her best customers for a sort of

English biscuit which tasted good with my beer.

Why did she not make for me to-day, as usual, with

her sad little smile ? Had she not seen me ? I had to call to her; and at last she pushed through to-pur corner, as she was wanted'at a neighboring table."

" Are' you not going to sell me anything more,

Mother Kranzlern ? "

"Ah, doctor; why I didn't see you," she replied, with embarrassment. s

" By the way, don't you know that it's very im

prudent for you to not to keep indoors in such weather?at your age?"

She only shrugged her shoulders and said

simply: "Ah, doctor, you know how it is."

What a depth of meaning in these few words ! I looked over at the young musician, to see what im

pression they had made on him; but he was read

ing the Neu-Preussische, whose great folds con

cealed his face. " Hasn't your son got to doing anything for you

yet ?" I went on, as she was handing out my change. She shook her head and answered:

"Not yet."

"Why," I continued, "he must be a good big fel

low by this time."

She took up her basket and said, as she moved

to go "Yes, doctor, he is still?my son!"?and, as she

turned round, I detected a glance of singular gen tleness which rested for a moment on the mighty sheet of the aristocratic party.

For a moment I looked thoughtfully after her, and said, half to myself:

"That old lady, out in such weather?it's a

shame!"

The young composer must have caught the

words, for he folded the paper, ran his hands has

tily once or twice through his long hair, and said,

without looking at me : " Yes, it is a shame! A good serviceable text

from, an author of repute, and I'm a made man !"

It had not occurred to me that evening that I had

exactly what he wanted, and a chance to bring in

another ambitious youth into the bargain. A young

author, equally unknown, was on the look-out for

a composer for a text. I brought them together; and it was droll to stand by and see how hard each

found it to hide his conviction that he was making a great sacrifice to the other. But neither could

wait, so they made their agreement, and from that

period they met, at fixed times, to?squabble. I had almost forgotten the matter, when I was reminded of it by the re-appearance of the old cake-woman, whom I had not seen for a long while.

"Where have you been all this time, Mother Kranzlern?" said I. "You haven't been ill, I

hope?" "Not I, doctor," said she, with her sad smile;

" but my son has been at death's door."

"Ah," answered I, compassionately, "and what was the matter?"

" He worked too hard, and had a violent attack of

nervous fever. Four weeks have I sat by him; and it was awful to hear him wander."

" What's he about now, Mother Kranzlern?" " Why, you know?he's doing something for the

theater," answered the old lady, after some hesi- I tation.

" Really ? " said I, surprised, and suddenly seeing

a vision of the Neu-Preussische before my mental

sight?" so that young man was your son ? "

The old lady nodded, and her eyes lit with pride; while mine were veiled with anxiety. ?

" He's always talking about you, doctor," she

continued, after leaving me time to get over my

surprise; "and you were always so kind with me.

If you could gratify a poor mother's wish, and come

and see him some day? "

I gave a silent assent, and then asked : " Is it your wish, or his ?

"

She seemed to understand me ; for she answered,

calmly smiling: " His, but it would be a great favor to me."

Next day, after dinner, I was there. The little house was simply furnished, but not poverty-stricken; and in a snowy-white bed lay the young composer, whom his incautious thirst for glory had almost sent to the realm of shades. He looked like one himself, so transparent was his always pale complexion. As on

a former occasion, he was still fingering, restlessly on the coverlet, as he answered, to my inquiry after

his opera: " O, it's getting on. I have been working at it all

through my illness?it's getting on. If the text were only better."

I could not help smiling, as I rejoined: "Well, perhaps the author will let us make a few

corrections."

"Ah, doctor, if you would only do that"?and his

face.lit up?"I should have nothing more to wish

for."

Then he closed his eyes wearily, while mine, after a hasty glance round the room, came back and

rested on him.

"I know what you are thinking of," he went on,

rising a little in bed. "

People are so hard, and

have so often wounded me with their joking?and my poor old mother knew it?and it was her wish?

her wish?that we should not know each other in

public." I was silent for a moment, not even surprised that

he had guessed my thoughts. Then I said, com

passionately : " So she used to trot about, through all sorts of

weather, picking up the means for your education,

penny by penny ? "

" Yes," he assented with a melancholy nod, "and

would not let me play for dancing, because I was too

delicate, and got me everything?everything I need

ed, and I?did not recognize her when we met among

strangers! Then came my illness?God sent it?I

know it. Then I saw, by her unwearying care, what mother's love means ; and I was ashamed of myself. Don't be hard on me. When I get well, I'll change all that?and I swear to you, if my opera takes, as

Heaven grant it may, I'll bring her into the brewery on my arm, in triumph, and hug her before them all,

an^l she never shall go out into the rough weather again?I swear to you !"

"Keep your oath, Berger," said I, touched, and

holding out my hand, "and you will never be the worse for it.

" ^

Two months later, the little opera was done, and

the young composer set himself earnestly about get

ting it on the stage. Watching and waiting, varied at intervals with golden dreams?then came the disap

pointments. Two managements coldly refused the lit

tle work. Who does not know the difficulty of first steps in every art-career ! In the depths of despair,

Berger came to me for aid. Again it chanced that a

This content downloaded from 193.105.154.99 on Wed, 14 May 2014 13:08:02 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions